Bel, Erskin, and Jethro: Be celebrities.

Your answer is half groan, half growl, and you claw at his shoulders as much for purchase as to raise pretty violet welts on his skin. You're not interested in teasing him or making some kind of dance out of this, you just want to fuck. You've starved for him for weeks, and once on the living room floor wasn't enough to even take the edge off. Let him pin you if he wants, you're strong enough to buck up against him and make his spine whipcrack, make him throw his head back, bare his throat, make his mouth do that gorgeous soft thing it does when you've done something especially right -- okay, on second thought, you want more leverage. You pull him off balance by his horn and roll.

And fall off the window seat.

You lie on the carpet for a minute or two just sorting the confusion from the embarrassment from the horny. Also you have your coat flipped over your head, which is confusing at first. Once you've got your bearings, though, you strip off the coat (and your shirt, which is sweaty) and pad barefoot and silent out to the lounge, contemplating the best way to wake up your rival.

Somewhat to the detriment of your 'sexy stalk and pounce' plan, however, it turns out the pale pals fell asleep without eating their dinner, the lusii got into the bags and scattered the stuff everywhere, and apparently the pillbug ceviche was a little too fresh, because the thing is trundling across your path leaving a trail of lime juice, its shell flecked with herbs.

 

You pull yourself awake when Bel startles himself out of the dream. To your vast relief Jethro's wrapped around you instead of the other way, so the mess your bulge is currently making of your trousers remains your own business.

You extricate yourself from Jethro carefully,and freeze when Bel stumbles out of his block. He's shirtless and wild-haired and still wearing those ridiculous painted-on trousers and your mouth actually waters just to see him.

He's distracted by your former dinner, looking as if he doesn't know whether to kick it or catch it, and you ease off the couch and a few silent paces to one side, behind the end table. When he looks back to the couch his brows come together in momentary confusion that you're not there anymore--- and before he can scan the room you swing up and over the table to launch yourself at him from above.

 

Your reflexive roundhouse kick sends him across the room, where he slams into a decorative table and knocks over a vase. You cover your mouth with both your hands, round-eyed. "Holy shit, are you okay?" you squeak through your fingers. "Tell me I didn't break your ribs."

Jethro rolls over and pulls a pillow over his head. He begins muttering something about "Y'all noisy-ass motherfuckers" but trails off into snores before the end of the sentence.

 

You laugh, breathlessly, and throw the table at his head-- it misses, but smashes satisfyingly against the doorway.

"You'll have to kick me a damn sight farther than that, you old featherduster, if you want to keep me down!" you mock him. "I've had harder from hopbeasts, come on, try again!"

 

You consider the table, and you consider your impatient boner, and you consider him. You consider his grumbling moirail dragging more pillows over himself, half of which are falling on the floor because he's clumsy with sleep.

You pick up the pillbug and gently place it on the pile of pillows. Jethro's groping hand encounters it; he grasps it, pulls it into his pillow cave -- tucks it in the crook of his arm and says, distinctly and joyfully, "Onions!" The pillbug, now spherical, does nothing.

Grinning at Erskin, you suck spicy juice off your fingers, turn on your heel and swagger back into the respiteblock.

 

Well! How d'you like that! You snarl in in indignation and throw the vase at him, which hits his shoulder but turns out to be some sort of plastic and just bounces off disappointingly. You scowl, dust off some splinters, and trot after him. Your pride is a trifle wounded but your bulge is going to fall off if it doesn't get some attention soon. You catch up to him, reach out to pull his hair--

--oh, good, kissing is happening. This is good, you're fine with this. More thatn fine. You let go of his hair for a double handful of his ridiculously sculpted ass and churr, low and rattly, with affectionate malice.

 

You knew he'd follow you. You kick the door shut and slam him against it, devouring his mouth like you're starving for him, which you are. You're going to have him up against the wall just as soon as you get the clothes off both of you. Which which you're going to have to manage while kissing, because stopping is out of the question.

 

You laugh as he fumbles clumsily at your trousers, then suck on his tongue and prickle your claws through his jeans and enjoy the way this brilliant, graceful soldier boy suddenly can't finesse his way through a simple button. He solves the conundrum by growling harsh enough to rattle your bones and ripping the whole catch apart.

"I should leave you in these," you tell him, gasping a little as he turns attentions to one of your shivering fins. "I— ah, fuck— when you— you— oh, hell, I should have ripped you open whennnnh, you, when you were strutting 'round the shopping ring, you gorgeous bastard— why didn't we spend the whole night tearing each other apart, FUCK—" he's gone straight past your bulge to sink fingers into your nook and you keen, furious with how much you want him. "—DO MORE OF THAT OR I WILL MURDER YOU IN THE FACE."

 

"You and what army," you growl into his ear, but you keep doing it while you figure out the fly of your jeans. By some miracle, you manage to get it open without destroying anything for once. He makes free with your ass and thighs as he helps you wiggle out of the tight denim. You gasp relief as your bulge springs free. You weren't wearing underwear, and had been starting to regret that decision.

He snarls when you take your fingers out -- he must think you're going to tease him, and it's true that playing him like an instrument is one of your favorite things, but not this time. This time you get your hands around his delicious little cannonball ass and lift him up so you can sink your bulge into him. His legs go around your waist. You slam him against the wall hard enough to make the mass-produced paintings rattle.

"You left me," you say hoarsely, "you left me and you were gone so -- hn -- so fucking long, you made me think I might never -- fuck you for making me worry, I was so worried goddamn you!"

 

You try to get some air back in your lungs, head lolled back, and bare all your fangs at him the moment you can manage.

"Don't give me that," you snarl, raking claws down his back. "I bloody well mourned you, when I, ahh, when I left. You had, had every— reason to be coming for, for my, h-head, and— fuck— up to my fucking fins in snow and — fucking— still fucking missing you— you told me you'd kill me for your matesprit of COURSE I FUCKING BELIEVED YOU, course I fucking ran the minute I hah, had somewhere to r-run to."

You lean your forehead to his, squirming to get his bulge further in you, and moan with the heat and stretch of it. "Never thought— I'd— we'd—but I still wanted—"

 

"Fuck you and fuck your conclusion jumping!" you retort. "I'd kill to protect my quadrants, that means you! You dense bastard, oh my god how could you think --" You have to stop and pant against his neck for a minute because he feels so good and you need him so bad and you're so angry. Adjust your hold, firm your stance, get the leverage to drive into him as deep as you can go, but it's still not deep enough.

"I'd rip apart an army with my bare hands for you. Don't you ever leave me again, Erskin, I'll chase you to Hell, I'll haunt you."

 

You growl and bite his shoulder— there are faint scars there, sized for your teeth, and you drag your fangs over them and suck the raw flesh as he whines: it's not unfair that you can still bite him when the noises he makes for you are so beautiful.

"I'll hold you to that," you promise him darkly. "I won't leave, I, I, I w-won't, not as long as you'll have me, I'll—" you choke, you make yourself go on: "I'll believe you now, I'll listen. Tell me always again."

 

"Always," you answer instantly, "always, I mean it, I'll fight you forever, you're mine."

With his shoulders braced against the wall, you only need one hand to hold him up; you can use the other to steer him by the horn so you can kiss him like you're trying to drink his soul. You can feel a hot whip of urgency unfurling in your gut, he's starting to clamp down around you, and for just a breath's time you're both still. It's like the moment between lining up a shot and pulling the trigger. Like the spread-winged pause before a dive.

"I hate you," you hiss through your teeth, and then you cut loose and fuck him literally through the wall.

 

"Oh my god, stop, stop—" you say, laughing breathlessly. You have your hands flung out to brace against the apparently very cheap and crumbly wall fiber and your backside is— is— "if Jethro's watching my naked ass hang through this bloody hole I am going to kick you out the fucking window, see how well you fly on this side of dreaming— aggh, fuck, get off, get off, I've got bits on my bulge—"

You squirm and shove out of the massive dent, sneeze explosively, then awkwardly paw prickly crumbs of wall fiber off the squirming, impatient mess of your external anatomy. Bel's is also irritatedly frisky, and you pat it on your way to standing up— attempting to stand up. Your knees are approximate consistency of jellied eel, and you have to hang on to Bel's shoulder to study the troll-sized scattering of wall fibers lying on the other side of said wall, through the troll-sized hole punched in the very same wall.

"Well, then," you say, and sneeze again. "Well! D'you think you could be so kind as to fuck me against something a bit higher quality?"

 

Laughing into his shoulder, you just steady each other for a moment. You love this about him, the laughter, love to hate how he takes every event as an excuse to snip and snark, he's so horribly perfect. And he's given you an idea. You give him a big, wicked grin, wag your eyebrows once: "D'you trust me?" Pick him up again and press his back against the cold window.

 

You give a convulsive, full-body shudder as your bare skin hits the icy glass.

"Oh," you breathe, and throw your arms around his shoulders, cling tightly, but you don't try to get away or spin him 'round, and you turn your head enough that your earfin flattens against the window—pours chill all down your spine—and you can see out into the city. It's past dawn, and the clouds are lighting up in brilliant skeins of color all around this tower— you shudder again, looking down at the drop and grinning with the thrilling, idiotic risk of this particular proposition.

"This is insane, irresponsible, and incredibly stupid," you tell your kismesis, and dig your heels into the small of his back. "I'm very proud of you, please continue having sex with me right now."

 

"As your lordship commands," you purr, sliding into him again.

Instead of pounding him like you did before, you revisit that gloating gentleness from the dream, take him with a slow heavy roll, just hard enough to hear the glass creak sometimes the way it does when the wind blows. Your purr-growl is a deep engine throb. The sweet sounds he makes hit your nerves like little electric shocks. It's so good.

 

The chill of the glass against your fin, your bare back, has your temperature dropping and your sex-frantic pulse smoothing out and as he rolls against you, presses soft kisses to your horns, it's not— it's not peace but it's a cool, lazy pleasure that unstrings your bones from one another, sets you rocking back against him clumsy and careless. Your kismesis is the only point of warmth in the world, his touch like sunlight through deep water. Climax comes as a last gasp of heat that empties you out against him and sets you to shivering as he keeps driving into you, mercilessly thorough in pulling out every last little scrap of pleasure your nerves can yield.

So instead of clamping down on his bulge or pulling his hair or spurring him faster you just— let him, take him, comb your claws against his skin, murmur soft insults. You tease him, "Are you getting bored?" when his hips start to stutter faster, you tug his ears when his mouth against your skin grows too frantic you murmur "Is that all you've got?" or "Do you have somewhere else to be?" and he curses you and slows again, and you laugh at him. The aftershocks of your first climax fade into the trembling anticipation of another and you enjoy him so much, your own kisses to his throat start to quicken and grow sharper, more urgent.

 

"I could do this all day," you promise, meaning: I could do this for the rest of my life. But sucking marks into his shoulders can only distract you from this slow but inexorable build for so long. The way he ripples around you, the way his hand tightens on the back of your neck -- too much, too good -- but if you can just keep it together until he comes again you win. It won't be long. You can feel he's close. You can do this. You can --

Nope, no you can't, here it comes.

Your climax sets off his second, close enough that you could claim they were simultaneous, but you know he noticed and is laughing at you and he's so awful and you love him so much. As you finish, groaning his name like a curse, you curl around him and carry him to the floor with you. You're too full of feelings, even this wasn't quite enough to get them all out; you have to kiss all over his face as the aftershocks fade, saying with each one, "Mine. Mine. Mine."

 

- armchairDesperado [AD] began trolling darlingDatamancer -
- AD is sending file "higbloods_vs_drywall.img" -
DD: What am I looking at here? Is that your hotel room??
AD: = my <> & his <3< bae failing @ wall sex while i'm tryna sleep gdi
DD: Oh my gosh, can I publish this?
AD: = knock yerself out
- AD is sending file "who_gave_me_this.img" -
DD: And that's... a pillbug?
AD: = imma name him acorn.